


Blind Date

by Calacious



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Violence, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:30:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spinelli left Port Charles to work as a computer analyst in a third world country. After a couple of months, he appears to fall off the face of the earth. Jason worries about him, but has his own issues to deal with after breaking up with Sam, such as unresolved issues with Spinelli, and just who it is that Carly's trying to set him up with now that he's come out of the closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blind Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suerum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suerum/gifts).



Jason obediently lifted his chin when Carly tapped at it impatiently. Her nervous energy was rubbing off on him. He wasn’t used to feeling this anxious before a date, but, it was his first blind date, and it was one he’d agreed to merely to get the irresistible force of nature off his case.

He and Sam had split up shortly after Spinelli had left for a six month stint to some South American country Jason had never heard before. It ended up being much longer than the affable computer hacker had intended, at least according to the note that he’d left behind for Jason to find.

Jason hadn’t heard from his former roommate for over a year now, and there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t wonder where he was and what he was doing – if he was okay, if he’d been injured in a firefight, or if he’d been killed by a stray bullet. Jason had been keeping tabs, Spinelli had gone to a war-torn country, and if he had it to do over, he’d have done everything in his power to stop Spinelli from leaving in the first place.

Spinelli hadn’t hesitated to sign on as a civilian consultant to the military. He hadn’t even talked to Jason about it, had just left him a note telling him where he was going, how long he would be gone, and that was it. They’d spoken a few times on the phone, but then, out of the blue, the hacker just up and disappeared. There were no more phone calls, no random emails checking up on him and Sam.

Jason had watched the news religiously, but there’d been nothing about the small contingency of civilian workers who’d been brought into the small South American country for their computer expertise. Spinelli had spoken rather fondly of the small crew – Marie, someone Spinelli had called Jigger, and Paul. Jason didn’t think that he’d ever seen Spinelli looking so happy before, and he wished that he hadn’t been so focused on other things while Spinelli had been living with him. Maybe he’d have managed to make the hacker smile like that himself.

“Carly,” Jason sighed; he was about fed up with her ministrations, and more than a little worried about who it was that she had set him up with. For her to take such painstaking measures it had to be someone pretty important, and he didn’t know if he was up for that kind of date. Carly’s tastes had always been high class – a four course dinner complete with wine and dessert. His own tastes were more working class – a simple, homemade dinner and beer, maybe a game of pool afterwards.

Jason hasn’t yet gotten to the whole sex part of the dating game. It isn’t that he hasn’t been attracted to the men he’s dated, but, it just hasn’t been right, and he doesn’t want his first time with another man to be rushed.

Part of him thinks that he should just go for it, get it over with and see if he really, truly is gay. Like he can deny his attraction to lithe, dark-haired men with eyes the color of stormy jade. But then there’s another part of him that insists he wait for ‘the one’, like some fucking schoolgirl crushing on the most popular boy at school, holding onto her virginity like it’s some fucking prize to be bestowed on only the most worthy, the boy of her dreams, the one she ‘loves’. Except, that never ends well, and, he’s not some fucking schoolgirl.

Ever since he’d broken up with Sam, and had come out of the proverbial closet, Carly had been dead set on arranging a date for him; insisting that since she knew men, and she knew him, it meant that she’d be able to find the perfect man for him. After of course ascertaining that he was indeed gay or bi or whatever the hell anyone wanted to call it.

All he’d known was that he couldn’t keep pretending that he loved Sam any more, and she had insisted that he stop, had actually been the one to point out that perhaps he was slightly more ‘bent’ than ‘straight’. Had even helped him come to terms with it, and had set him up on his first official ‘date’, which had gone surprisingly well. Their marriage had ended on a good note, and he still counted Sam as one of his friends.

But, he had turned Carly down so many times now that he finally agreed to this date just to get her off his back. It was clear that she wasn’t going to keep taking no as an answer from him. Besides, Shawn had pretty much told him that if he didn’t agree to this date, he would personally see to it that his life, for the next foreseeable future, would be unpleasant at best.

He hadn’t been too keen on Carly’s relationship with the bodyguard at first, but they were good together. He brought out something in Carly that no one else had, and he accepted her just as she was, faults and all. He also seemed to have some sort of calming effect on her that no one else seemed to have. Not even Jax had been able to ‘even’ her out, so to speak. And, she’s laughed more with him than she ever has, at least that Jason can remember.

“Jason,” Carly’s eyes shone with unshed tears as she looked him over, “you look perfect.”

“Carly who is this mystery date?” he asked, not for the first time.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re going to love him, I promise,” she said with a small, knowing smile.

“Yeah, man, he’s just your type,” Shawn added, quickly kissing his wife on the cheek, and whistling as he looked at her handiwork. “You might be good enough for him too,” he conceded with a nod.

“Remember our agreement.” Gone was the friendly, bantering tone, Shawn was all business now, and Jason recognized the unspoken threat for what it was. It was clear to Jason that whoever he’d been set up with mattered a great deal to Shawn.

Jason nodded, remembering the promises that had been extracted from him when Shawn and Carly had cornered him: he couldn’t bail on this date, had to see it through to the end of the night that Carly had planned, and, this is the part that he hated, he had to tell Carly, and Shawn (and what the hell was that all about?) how his date had gone.

Apparently it was Shawn who’d found the guy through one of his ex-Marine buddies or something like that, Jason had only been half listening when Carly had talked to him about it. Now, he wishes that he’d paid more attention to what she’d been saying about it. He doesn’t think that he’s up for a date with someone who’s been in the military.

He’s going to regret this, he just knows it, but there’s no going back now that he has agreed to it. Besides, even if he doesn’t enjoy himself, and nothing comes of it, it will at least make Carly happy, and therefore, Shawn, as well. It would be nice to put a smile on her face, and it wouldn’t hurt to make his new boss happy either.

Sonny had made it abundantly clear to him, and the majority of the residents of Port Charles, just how he felt about ‘queers’ and ‘fags’ and men fucking other men. Jason had been lucky in that he’d only required a few stitches, over his left eye, and one night of hospital supervision for his concussion. The bruises had faded over time, but Jason hadn’t been able to walk without a limp up until a few months ago. Physical therapy had been a bitch, and his knee would always ache when a storm front came in, but, all in all, he figured that he was lucky to be alive.

Surprisingly, it had been Dante who’d come to his rescue. The police detective had been forced to pry his father off of Jason’s unconscious form. He’d even encouraged Jason to file a formal complaint against the mobster, but Jason had just wanted to let it go. He knew how Sonny felt and that was enough for him. He would steer clear of the man from here on out.

When Carly and Shawn offered him a position at their newly formed security firm, he’d been reluctant to accept it at first. He didn’t want them to run afoul of Sonny. Carly still had to deal with the bigoted man because of Morgan and Michael. But, Shawn had been almost as persistent as Carly was, and in the end, Jason had accepted the position.

It pays well enough. And, he’s also working for Sam on occasion. As much as she’d complained about Spinelli, it’s clear that, in his absence, their joint PI business is suffering and she can use all the help that she can get. Jason’s more than willing to help out, and they make good partners. They both miss Spinelli though. There are cases and clients that could benefit from his different areas of expertise.

He’s not making as much money as he was when he was working for Sonny, but he’s earning enough to keep a nice apartment in a decent part of town. It’s not as large as the penthouse that he’d been in while under Sonny’s employ, but there’s a nice view, a guest room that isn’t painted pink, and a game room in which he once again has a pool table, and some throwback to the 70’s game that Spinelli had enthused over once upon a time. Just in case Spinelli ever returns to Port Charles, and if he ever needs a place to crash, or just wants to hang out sometime.

Jason hasn’t completely given up hope that his wayward roommate might come back some day. That he might want to make a home, such as it is, with him.

All in all it’s a nice place, a nice job, a nice life, except that it’s not. There’s something missing. There’s a hole in his life where there shouldn’t be one. And, there are nights when Jason lays awake at night wondering how to fill that hole which is oddly Spinelli-shaped.

He doesn’t want to admit that he misses the hacker, that the few men he has dated share one or more things in common with his errant roommate: shaggy, unkempt hair; eyes a distinct shade of hazel-tinted green; a hesitant, shy smile; or long, nimble fingers that can fly like the wind across a keyboard. His dates never go beyond kissing and heavy petting. He tells them he’s not ready for anything beyond that yet. Rarely gets a third date.

He goes to bed way too many nights wondering where Spinelli is, what he’s doing, and if he could have convinced the hacker to stay had he been given the opportunity to do so, had Spinelli not taken the coward’s way out. He imagines what it would be like to have Spinelli’s slim, dexterous fingers, rather than his own thick calloused, clumsy ones, wrapped around his dick. Slick with pre-cum, fingers gently squeezing, teasing as they run up and down the shaft of his penis, creating friction, keeping up a steady rhythm with the panting of his breath, thumbing the head…

He bites down on his lower lip as he cums, uttering Spinelli’s name on a moan as he pumps desperately into his palm, hips jerking upward, heart racing in his chest until he’s spent, seed spurting out in a jerking arc, staining his sheets and coating his stomach with the salty, viscous substance.

He showers, tries not to think of the hacker’s mouth: pouting lips, quivering chin, tongue hot, thick, textured…devouring him whole. He has to close his eyes, ride out the visceral pain of longing and turn the knob until there’s icy water raining down on him, eliciting goose bumps in places where he imagines Spinelli’s mouth, tongue, and fingers…exploring.

He towels off, leaving his skin red in places where he’s rubbed too hard. Falls face first into bed and forces himself to think of anyone, anything else, other than what it might be like to have Spinelli lying next to him in his new bed, falling asleep beside him, lightly snoring, body curling instinctively into his, fitting perfectly. At least it’s pretty close to damn perfect the way Jason’s imagining it.

There are nights he doesn’t sleep at all, certain that Spinelli’s in some grave danger, and that he should be there with the man he now knows that he loves (a case of too little said too late, or rather nothing said at all), to help him face whatever hell Jason’s certain he’s going through. Some nights he wakes in a cold sweat, unspeakable fear making it difficult for him to breathe.

Then there were those nights he dreams that he’s surrounded by darkness so thick that he can’t see. But it isn’t for lack of trying. Terror grips his heart so tightly that he fears it’ll be crushed under the strain of it. On those nights, he wakes abruptly, his hands rushing to assess that his eyes are still intact, that he is, in fact, whole. He turns every light on in the apartment, and lies awake the rest of the night as darkness dogs the edge of his sight like a menacing shadow.

“I think you’re just about ready,” Carly says, breaking through his dark inner musings. He attempts to smile as she tilts her head to the side, checking to see that she’s done a good job. He breathes a little easier when she finishes adjusting his collar and backs away, saying, “There, that should do it.”

“How will I know it’s him?” Jason asks.

His palms have grown sweaty, and his mouth dry, now that he’d been declared ‘ready’. He doesn’t know if he’s ready. Doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready for a blind date set up by Carly and Shawn. She’s one of his best friends, Shawn’s growing into a close second. He loves her dearly, but he doesn’t know if he can trust her judgment.

“You’ll know it’s him,” says Carly, and she pauses, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully for a second before smiling, and adding, “he’ll be the only one there. I booked the back room for your date.”

“Carly,” Jason growls. He doesn’t like surprises and all this mystery is driving him crazy. Already, he wants the night to be over and it hasn’t even begun.

“You’d better get going, or you’ll be late,” Carly says.

She spins him around and pushes him toward the door, patting him on the butt.

“Have fun!” she calls after him.

“Yeah right,” he mutters under his breath, considers staging a mutiny, but then realizes that both Carly and Shawn would probably frog march him to the restaurant and then tie him down if they need to. He is going on this date whether he wants to or not.

The short drive to the French restaurant is uneventful, save for the mounting anxiety Jason feels as he draws nearer the establishment. He misses Spinelli something fierce. He’d dreamt about the hacker the night before, and had mentally decided to throw in the towel as far as dating was concerned. No one will ever come close to meeting his Spinelli-inspired standards. But, then Carly had called and somehow convinced him to go on one more date. And, like the fool that he was, he’d agreed.

He reasoned that, even if Spinelli did return to Port Charles one day, there was no guarantee that the younger man would want to have anything to do with him. He hadn’t even taken the time to say a proper goodbye to him in the first place. Jason probably mattered very little to the computer genius. If he had mattered to Spinelli, the hacker would never have left him in the first place.

He allowed the maître-de to lead him past tables filled with couples, some who looked to be deeply in love, others who looked as though love was the last thing on their minds. He was led to the back room and seated at a round table which was elegantly set with cloth linens, wine glasses, gilded utensils and plates. A single red rose housed in a crystal vase had been positioned in the middle of the table.

Jason feels completely out of his element and understands now why Carly took such careful pains to make sure that he was dressed so nicely. It is an upscale restaurant. She and Shawn have probably set him up with someone important. He swallows the sudden lump in his throat and gives the maître-de a nervous smile which the man returns as he leaves.

With nothing to do but wait, Jason finds himself fingering the rose. Its silky petals bring Spinelli to mind for some unfathomable reason, and he almost bolts as he feels a pang of guilt, like he’s betraying the man who was never his to begin with by even thinking of dating yet another non-Spinelli. It doesn’t even matter to his guilt-laden mind that the hacker abandoned him long before he’d even come close to recognizing what it was that he felt for him, or that his former roommate might not even be ‘bent’ quite in the same fashion that he apparently is.

All he can see are Spinelli’s green eyes filling up with hurt, confusion, and betrayal lurking in their stormy depths; the edges of the hacker’s mouth quirking upward in an almost smile that will never reach his eyes; and his high cheekbones coloring a dusky pink as he turns away, unable to watch Jason make a fool of himself yet again. Because, ever since Jason’s first date flopped, the thought of Spinelli’s always been there. At the back of his mind, and in his mind’s eye, the hacker has been watching and waiting, biding his time until the ‘right’ one for him comes along, so that he can give his approval.

Fuck, Jason’s ready to leave. He doesn’t want to face whoever the hell this mystery date is with the thought of Spinelli watching them, like some beneficent, supernatural stalker. And, he sure as hell doesn’t want to face the fact that, given how often he’s felt Spinelli’s proximity, how much more real the hacker has seemed to him lately, Spinelli is more than likely dead, and has been for quite some time.

The knowledge hits him like a sucker punch to the gut and he suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. He’s choking on air, drowning. He can’t do this. Can’t face life without the thought that Spinelli might someday return to him and explain what his letter didn’t – why he left him, why he didn’t say goodbye, whether or not Jason meant anything to him at all, and if his feelings, so much more than friendship or brotherly love, could ever be returned.

He needs to leave. The walls are closing in on him, and his eyes are watering. He’s not an emotional man, not given to overly sentimental tripe, and yet, as the reality that Spinelli is dead sinks in, he finds that he can’t stop the tears from falling. He’s standing, gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his fingers are white. He’s ready to flee the restaurant, and Spinelli’s sad, accusatory eyes, when the door opens and his heart leaps up into his throat. He’s shaking, the room is titling at an odd angle, and the maître-de is shoving the chair beneath him as his knees give way, catching him before he can fall flat on his ass and make a fool of himself.

* * *

 

“You know, you don’t need to do this,” he says for the hundredth time as Marcus straightens his tie for him with hands that are much steadier than his own. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” Marcus says tightly as he steps away to admire his handiwork. “And, you know that we’ll never see eye-to-eye on that.” He brushes a miniscule piece of lint off his friend’s suit and tugs the sleeves down so that they aren’t wrinkled over his still much too skinny arms.

They’ve been stateside almost four months now, getting regular meals, and still the man looks like a scarecrow. Marcus hadn’t felt right turning him loose, even though he’d claimed that he would be fine on his own. He couldn’t leave him on his own, not after all that he’d been through at the hands of the rebels that Marcus and his team had rescued him from. He hadn’t come back unscathed himself. It felt strange not being on active duty anymore, but, he’d found purpose in helping out the man he’d helped to rescue.

The man deserved a military medal for what he’d been through, six months of physical and mental hell in enemy’s hands, but Marcus knew that, if he even so much as suggested it, he’d be shot down with a quiet, politely worded protest which would be followed by days of silence and brooding. Marcus knows better than to bring up the Presidential Medal of Freedom the self-effacing, brave, young man has already been awarded. He hates that the man won’t even touch it. That he’s had to hide it away to keep it safe from him, because, he knows that, one day he might be ready to accept the fact that he has earned it.

The kid’s come out of his shell more in the past month, surprising Marcus with certain aspects of his personality that he would never have dreamed possible of the modest man. His nightmares are finally dwindling, and he’s now sleeping through the night more often than not, giving both of them a reprieve from their mutual sleep deprivation. Not that he himself has been nightmare free, but he’s got a better handle on them, and was used to witnessing and experiencing certain horrors that his new roommate hadn’t been exposed to before he’d been held captive.

Marcus had been to war and back, had done his part, served his country with pride, and would have continued to do so, if it hadn’t been for a nearly fatal wound which he was still coming to terms with. He’d seen his share of death and then some. He was more than willing to, and capable of, helping someone else through the nightmares.

“Besides,” Marcus adds, chasing his thoughts away, “I’m not really doing this for you, I’m repaying a favor to an old friend of mine. Man saved my life once upon a time.”

“I see,” his friend says, a small smile playing about his lips, “and you’re repaying him by setting me up on a blind date with a friend of his? That makes perfect sense,” he says drily, clearly not convinced.

“Yeah,” Marcus shrugs and mentally curses himself for his stupidity, “well, I guess this man’s a hard case. My friend and his wife are at their wit’s end for what to do to pull him out of this self-imposed funk he’s in.”

“And setting him up on a blind date with me is going to help him how?”

Marcus shrugs again and swears beneath his breath. He should be used to this now, should know what to do and what not to do. They’ve been roommates for the past three months now, and he’s still making these kinds of foolish mistakes.

“Well, my friend and his wife are convinced that getting him out is the key,” Marcus says, careful not to give too much away in the tone of his voice.

He’s excited for his friend for more reasons than he can let on about just now, and he hopes to god that the young man won’t feel that he’s betrayed him in some way for what’s about to happen. He hopes that things will work out for him and this other man, Jason, because the kid has suffered far too much not to have something go right in his life about now.

He thinks back to the call he made a couple of weeks ago. He’d been surprised when he’d read the marriage announcement in the newspaper, but had not hesitated to call his old friend up to offer his congratulations. One thing had led to another, and before he knew it, he was telling his old team leader about what had happened to him and how he’d acquired his new roommate. What had happened next was like something someone would read about in a book or maybe in one of those women’s magazines because this kind of thing didn’t happen all that often in the real world, at least not the one that Marcus lived in.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was arranging a blind date for his roommate who’d shared with him that he was bi. This Jason that Shawn was so concerned about had been pining over someone who’d left him over a year ago, and, though he never said anything, Marcus knew that the kid was missing someone himself. It seemed like a good thing to do at the time, but when the time came for him to tell the kid about the date, he realized that he hadn’t thought everything through. He’d neglected to mention a few key things to Shawn and there were certain aspects about the arrangement which he’d deliberately kept from his roommate.

“How far away is this place again?”

“An hour and a half; don’t worry,” Marcus says quickly, hopefully allaying his friend’s fears, “I’ll be just outside, in case…” he doesn’t finish his sentence, knowing that he doesn’t have to, that his roommate knows the reason why he’s promising to stay close.

“Good,” he says tersely, “we should probably get going. When am I supposed to meet this mystery man?” he fingers his watch nervously and Marcus smiles, shaking his head.

“We’ve got plenty of time. You sure you want to do this?” Marcus asks, giving the other man an out if he wants it.

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’ve got to start getting out some time.”

And with that, they’re out the door, Marcus driving toward the out of town restaurant Shawn and his wife have set up for this blind date he sincerely hopes will not turn into a fiasco of great proportions. He really wants this to work out for the younger man, or at least for it to go a long way in helping to build up his self-esteem, get him to see that he’s done more than merely survive the horrors he was forced to endure. That, it was okay for him to live when his friends didn’t make it.

When they arrive, Marcus opens the door for his friend and leads him into the restaurant. He’s reluctant to leave him, but knows that, though he can offer him a place to stay, a listening ear and, on rare occasions, a shoulder to cry on, that he can’t buffer the world for him.

He watches as the maître-de navigates the both of them through the crowded restaurant and takes a seat at an unoccupied table, willing to wait for as short or as long as it takes. Part of him is hoping that things will go well, that there’ll be a connection between the two, and that the date will go well. Another part of him is worried that things will end abruptly, and that his friend’s fragile ego will be irreparably damaged.

* * *

 

It isn’t like he’s never been on a date before, but his palms are sweaty and he’s more nervous than he’s been in a long time. More nervous than he’d been when he decided to leave the safety of his home and help as a civilian consultant to the military in a country far from home.

He was supposed to return home in six months’ time, but when the place he’d been working in had been ambushed, and he, along with his co-workers had been taken hostage, six months turned into a lot longer. He almost didn’t believe his rescuers when they told him that he, and the others, killed by their takers, rebels, had been missing for seven months. It felt like he’d been missing for a lifetime, and yet, like he’d just left home a day ago. It was surreal, and he still sometimes pinched himself to make sure that he was really away from that place, that hell on earth where he’d been beaten, starved, and raped.

It’s only a date, he’s been through much, much worse, and just that thought alone causes him to shudder in memory of the pain and torture that he’d felt for sure would be never-ending. If it hadn’t been for Marcus and the other men with him, he knew that he’d either still be enduring torture at the hands of his inhumane captors, or dead.

He isn’t sure what to expect on this blind date that Marcus and his old friend have set up for him, but is willing to go through with it for Marcus’ sake. He’s taken him in, been a good friend, helped him deal with the incessant nightmares, and has done everything in his power to help him deal with the shit that’s been thrown his way. He owes Marcus his life. The least he could do in recompense is agree to go on one blind date as a favor for a friend of his.

And, if the guy that he’s been set up with turns out to be a jerk, well, he knows that Marcus is just outside, and that all he has to do is say the word and he’ll drive him home, no questions asked. Or at least he knows there’ll be no questions that he won’t be willing to answer. But, Marcus is a good guy, one of the best that he’s ever known, and he doubts that he’d set him up with someone who would turn out to be a total creep, or a ne’er do well.

He has a little faith that this night might not turn out to be a total disaster. At least he hasn’t tripped over anything, yet, and he can’t feel the other patrons of the restaurant staring at him. He knows it is a peculiarity that Marcus can’t fully understand, but on the few occasions that he has gone out shopping or to eat with the older man, he’s felt people staring. He’s heard their whispered remarks, their expressions of horror and sorrow, and occasionally, even fear. That’s why he hardly leaves their apartment, and why this is such a monumental step for him.

Not to mention that this will officially, if it works out according to plan, be his first date with someone of the same sex. He didn’t include that one time he’d kissed his co-worker after having just a little too much to drink. It had happened in the heat of the moment, and nothing had come of it. Though, maybe if they hadn’t been taken hostage a few days later something more might have happened. That wasn’t something he really cared to dwell on much.

He’d only just begun to play around with the concept that he might not quite be as straight as he purported to be just before he left home. It was that confusion which, in the end, had caused him to leave. He knew that nothing could come of the, at the time, conflicting, feelings he was having. Because, not only was he finding that he was attracted to men, but that he was attracted to one man in particular. A man who would never be able to reciprocate his feelings because he was very much in love with someone else, and married. He’d done what he believed to be the best thing for all involved and left town before he could make a fool of himself.

Maybe he’d taken the cowardly way out, but, even after all that he’s been through, he doesn’t regret his decision, as hasty as it was. He did a lot of good work, helped a lot of people, and hopefully made a difference in the world. Marcus told him that he, and his friends who’d been killed, had made a difference, that they’d earned the Presidential Medal of Freedom. That it meant something.

Maybe it did, but he didn’t feel like he deserved it. He’d survived when they hadn’t, and, it wasn’t even because of anything he’d done. It wasn’t like he’d been stronger or better equipped to handle what had happened to them. He’d survived by default and because of pity. Marcus didn’t see it that way, but Marcus had a way of seeing things in ways that he couldn’t quite fathom.

The maître-de opens a door, and he hears a sharp intake of breath that is both familiar and unsettling at the same time as it brings to mind someone he was determined to leave behind what now feels like a lifetime ago.

“Wait here,” the maître-de says before he’s quite ready to be left to his own devices, and he stands swaying slightly as he’s abandoned by his guide. His hands find the doorframe and he steadies himself, using the frame for support.

It’s a long, tense minute before the silence that has descended upon the room is broken, and he feels calloused hands cupping his face. They’re trembling, and the fingers that explore his face are far gentler than he ever imagined that they’d be, when he’d dared to imagine these fingers touching him in something other than reprimand or friendly camaraderie, that is.

He blinks, though it doesn’t do any good, and his heart skips one beat, and then several as the fingers still, poised at the scar beneath his right eye. And then a thumb tenderly caresses the disfigurement, and a ragged sigh escapes, the soft breath touches his cheek and makes him shiver.

“Spinelli,” his name falls from lips that linger over his, and his heart restarts at a rate which is much too quick.

“Stone Cold?” he questions, and he’s dreamed about this moment for far too long, that he doesn’t dare believe this is real.

He’s back at the rebel camp and Ramos or Martinez or the man he’d dubbed ‘The Foul Colonel’ is beating or raping him, punishing him for speaking English, or for still clinging to the hope that he might one day escape them. They have to reestablish their hold over him, make him understand that he will never regain his freedom, that he’s theirs to do whatever the fuck they want to with.

He’s called this name out so many times after a beating or when he’d had a particularly hard day or in a feverish dream that he feared it lost its meaning. It had always fallen on deaf ears, or earned him another beating, or, worse, ridicule – coarse, empty laughter ringing in warm, fetid air.

“Spinelli,” his name is breathed out like a prayer and the fingers are now tracing the scar that runs from chin to hairline.

“Stone Cold?” he’s starting to believe that this is real, that he’s finally free of the camp, and of the three men who’d almost been his undoing, but it isn’t until he feels lips pressed lightly to his temple that he allows himself to respond, to touch the man whose hands are now splayed carefully over his face. And Spinelli smiles when he realizes that the fingers are not avoiding the great, ugly scar tissue that most people find repulsive. Instead, they are stroking it.

He takes his hands away from the doorframe and reaches out for the man standing in front of him, floundering a little at first, until he’s gripping biceps that feel just as hard as he imagined they would. He doesn’t stop there though; he’s been starved of touch and affection. It’s not like Marcus hasn’t touched him or anything, but this isn’t clinical or friend touching friend.

No, this is touch that borders on possessive, but not like that of those who’d held him captive. It takes a minute for Spinelli to register what this touch, what Stone Cold’s hand on the small of his back, his fingers trailing along his collarbone, and the lips which still linger over his, means. And the word explodes on the backdrop of his mind, sending up fireworks of red, gold and green which he can see on the darkness that now defines him. Love.

“Spinelli, you’re…” his breath hitches, and Spinelli’s expecting him to state the obvious, but instead, Stone Cold’s voice cracks as he says, “alive. I thought you were…” and he doesn’t finish his thought as if fearful that if he says it aloud it will somehow make it true and this will all have been a dream.

He doesn’t know whether or not to respond with words, but he’s having a hard time accepting that this is real himself, he needs to know for sure. He raises his hands to Stone Cold’s face and hesitates, fingers hovering, itching to touch, but he’s seeking permission first, and is relieved when Stone Cold’s fingers capture his wrists and guide his hands to his face.

“You…you’re real,” Spinelli stutters as his fingers gracefully trace Stone Cold’s face, bringing his features to mind, and he’s picturing him now.

He hasn’t been able to picture Stone Cold since he’s been blinded – one eye lost to a stray bullet during the hostile takeover, the other to an infection he’d acquired while held prisoner at the camp. The man’s thinner now, Spinelli’s fingertips pause when he reaches the scar over the man’s left eye, and he frowns as he fingers it. Without thinking, he presses his lips to the scar and kisses it.

“Yeah,” Jason responds throatily, and then he’s being drawn into the room.

His fingers are still exploring Jason’s face, trying to memorize everything about it: the things he’s remembered, things he’s either forgotten or which hadn’t been present when he’d left over a year ago, and things which he knows are new, like the troublesome scar over his left eye.

“How?” Spinelli asks. “Why?” and he can’t really form a coherent thought as Jason’s hands are now exploring other parts of his body, as though he’s assessing him for injury, and Spinelli concedes that maybe he is.

“I’m gonna kill that woman,” Jason growls and Spinelli can’t help it, he flinches, and instantly regrets it when Jason’s mouth tightens and he stiffens beneath his fingers.

Jason clears his throat and says, “Carly didn’t tell me it was you.”

Spinelli chuckles and relaxes, allowing Jason to pull him over to a chair and help him sit. He hears another chair being pulled up, and soon Jason’s knees are resting against his.

“She should have told me,” Jason says and Spinelli can almost picture the cool steel of his blue eyes and the thin smile that stretches across his lips.

“Marcus must’ve known something too,” Spinelli muses aloud. The man’s voice had been much too excited for just a simple setup.

“Marcus?” Jason questions and Spinelli tells him about the rescue and where he’s been living since his release from the hospital.

When he’s finished with his story, he waits. He’s purposely left out what had necessitated the rescue in the first place. Too much had happened, and he’s already emotionally exhausted with the unexpected reunion.

“So,” Jason says after a moment, and Spinelli can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. He’s wondering if the observation that he’s been blinded will pop up now, but is surprised when Jason doesn’t mention this at all, but asks, “you, and this Marcus, are…uh were you a,” he clears his throat, “a couple?”

Spinelli frowns and shakes his head and then smiles coyly. His heart, which had finally started beating normally, picks up the pace as it finally sinks in that he wasn’t planning on meeting Stone Cold tonight, but that he was planning on enduring a date with some anonymous, faceless person.

“No,” he answers easily, trying in vain to imagine the expression that might now be on Jason’s face. “Marcus saved my life and he’s been helping me adjust to life now that…” he gestured at the sockets where his eyes used to be, “now that I’m blind.”

He’d been completely blind for nine months now, but hadn’t really been given an opportunity to adjust to his sudden blindness while he’d been a captive. His life had been condensed to a fight for survival; blindness had been little more than an inconvenience to those who’d taken him, and something to be pitied. Strangely, it had been the reason he’d been kept alive. He was the only one who would be unable to escape and bring anyone back to the camp. The others had been seen as liabilities and, when their captors had lost interest in them, they’d been killed.

Spinelli is sometimes woken up from a dead sleep by the memory of Marie’s screams, Jigger’s hoarse voice begging for mercy, or Paul’s whimpered pleas. He’d stopped crying long before any of them had. Allowed himself to get lost in the darkness that his blindness had afforded him. He’d used his infirmity as an escape from reality.

“Oh,” Jason’s response is one of immense relief that Spinelli tries hard not to read too much into.

* * *

 

Jason wants to ask how Spinelli lost his eyes, but he tamps down hard on his anger and on his desire to know what happened to him. He knows that now is not the time. He doesn’t think he could even handle hearing about it now, and he really does want to kill Carly and Shawn for their deception. He feels like he’s been blindsided.

He aches to touch Spinelli, to tell him how much he’s missed him, how he’s thought about him, but he’s afraid that Spinelli might not want anything to do with him. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but he can’t help the streak of jealousy that he feels when Spinelli mentions Marcus, and is only mildly relieved when Spinelli explains the situation.

He wants to cry when he looks at Spinelli’s face, his missing eyes, and he wants to kill whoever did this to him, even if whoever it was is already dead. And, from what little of his story that Spinelli has told him, he knows that those who’ve hurt him are dead, but that gives him little comfort. He now understands those dreams that he’s had for the past several months, the darkness, not seeing, the unspeakable terror.

“Spinelli,” he starts, but then stops, what can he say? There’s so much that needs to be said, so much that he can’t say with words alone. But, in the end, his heart and mouth usurps his brain, and his hands are once more all over the hacker, pulling him in for a kiss before he unexpectedly blurts out, “I love you.”

Spinelli stills and Jason’s heart flips in his chest. He’s said the wrong thing. He leans back in his chair, striving to give Spinelli some space, but Spinelli’s following him, and lips are pressed to lips, fingers linked, teeth clacking, knees digging into groins, and before he knows what’s happening, Spinelli’s tongue is in his mouth, and fuck if this isn’t even better than he’d ever imagined it being.

“I love you too,” Spinelli’s words are muffled, but Jason hears them well enough.

“Move in with me?” he asks, and his heart flops when Spinelli nods.

“I’m still going to kill Carly,” he mumbles.

“I’ll help,” Spinelli promises, “but after we finish our date.”

* * *

 

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, holding Spinelli close, almost afraid to let him go now that he’s got him back. “Kind of glad that I finally said yes to her.”

“The Valkyrie’s been trying to set you up on other blind dates?” Spinelli asks, and Jason likes the possessiveness and the pout that he can hear in the younger man’s voice.

“Yeah, always turned her down,” Jason replies, nibbling the inside of Spinelli’s lower lip.

“Guess you felt you had to wait for the real McCoy,” Spinelli says and it takes just a second for the full impact of what Spinelli’s said to register with Jason, but then he’s throwing his head back and laughing, and pulling him in for another dizzying kiss.


	2. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spinelli and Jason are together now, but the painful past stands in the way of their happiness.

It always starts the same way. He’s laughing at something Jigger, or maybe it’s Marie, said, when fear stabs him in the gut, and the hairs on his arms stand at attention. A sense of foreboding overtakes him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows that this isn’t how it really happened, that his mind is playing tricks on him, messing with his memory. But he’s locked in the nightmare, and can’t get out of it until it has played out to its inevitable end.

He stands still, laughter dying on his lips, and then everything around him crumbles in a series of explosions, and the pop, pop, popping of rapid gunfire. His heart races, but his legs refuse to move, and he’s standing there, unmoving until he’s slammed into from behind, and something hot and blinding collides with his left eye.

Sometimes, this is where it ends, and he wakes sitting upright in bed, heart hammering in his chest, and hands searching for his missing eye, coming up empty. Panic settles in briefly, and he can’t breathe for a couple of minutes, but then he remembers. His eye, no his eyes, are gone.

Other times, though, he doesn’t wake and his mind switches scenes, and he’s at the camp. The others – Jigger, Marie, Paul – are all mercifully dead. His right eye is swollen shut from some debris or something stuck in it. His captor’s witch doctor hasn’t been too forthcoming with him. He’s sick, shivering, and asking for Stone Cold.

That’s when his mind switches again, and he’s being held down as the witch doctor, their field medic, performs and ad hoc surgery on him, removing his left, useless eye, and his right, infected eye. Sewing them shut to keep out further infection. Anesthesia is not a luxury afforded him.

He must’ve passed out at some point during the crude surgery, because he doesn’t remember anything beyond a white hot pain. Again, his sleeping mind drifts, and he’s being pinned down by the Colonel. His face pressed into a gritty dirt floor. He can hear the Colonel panting and grunting as he ruts into him, but he can’t see anything. With each thrust the Colonel makes, his cheek is scraped against the dirt.

There’re no women in the camp. It’s just him, and some others, mostly younger boys, that the guerillas have taken with them, who service their most basic of needs. Sex and rape are synonymous. Spinelli has no rights. He’s not human. He’s coveted for his pale skin and soft hair, for the little noises he makes at the back of his throat when they fuck him.

It’s during this memory of the Colonel fucking him, gripping his hips so tightly that his fingers leave bruises on top of the bruises he, or one of his buddies left the last time he was raped like some bitch in heat, that he finally wakes, screaming at the pain and crying, tearlessly, in shame. He feels violated, begs his dead rapist to stop, and pushes against the solid, unmoving chest even as strong, unrelenting arms envelop him.

His eyes refuse to open, and he panics. He pushes, scratches, punches at the man holding him. He resorts to biting when the arms only seem to grip him more tightly, holding him in place with the strength of an ox.

And then, when words repeated over and over, like a mantra, finally break through the memories, and the panic (‘You’re safe now. Sh, it’s over. I’ve got you now. Sh, sh, Spinelli, it’s me. It’s Jason, Stone Cold. I’ve got you. You’re safe.’), he collapses and sobs.

He thinks it might be easier if he could see that it was Stone Cold holding him, and not the Colonel, or one of his thirty some men. Though, from what Carly and Shawn have shared with him and Stone Cold, sometimes sight can play tricks on someone suffering from PTSD. Marcus has said the same thing. Sight doesn’t make the memories go away, doesn’t make it any easier to leave the nightmares behind.

Spinelli just wishes that he could see again, and worries that Stone Cold will grow tired of this, tired of getting beaten up by an invalid on an almost nightly basis. That he will tell him to leave because of all of the restless nights. That he will get tired of waiting until Spinelli is comfortable with more than just foreplay. He wants to have a sexual relationship with Stone Cold, but can’t seem to get past what happened in the camp.

Once, Maxie had teased Jason about a black eye, and, though he’d tried to downplay it, Spinelli had known that he’d caused it in the course of a nightmare. He was beating Stone Cold up in his sleep. How long could the man, his partner, put up with something like that?

Spinelli would give anything to have his eyes back, to be able to make love to Stone Cold, to see his partner so that he doesn’t mistake him for the Colonel. He doesn’t want to have to rely on his memory of the way Stone Cold’s blue eyes crinkle up at the corners when he laughs, his lips quirk upward when he smiles, or the way the sun glints off his hair, sending a halo of gold around it.

He wants his eyes back. He wants to rewind time. He wants the past year to have been nothing more than a horrific nightmare that he can wake up from.

“Spinelli,” Stone Cold’s voice sounds hesitant, like he’s talking to a little kid rather than an adult. Spinelli hates it. “You okay now? You want to talk about it?”

These are the questions that they’ve both been coached through, and Stone Cold has been good about asking them each and every time Spinelli has a nightmare, which is most nights. Spinelli, though, has not been as good with his side of the conversation, opting for silence most nights.

He purses his lips and shakes his head. He’s shivering and would like nothing more than to melt into Stone Cold’s embrace, let the man’s ever present heat warm him, but he holds himself back, not allowing himself to seek comfort where it is readily available. A small voice at the back of his mind says that he doesn’t deserve Stone Cold’s comfort, that he’s just a dirty pig, a ‘sucio cerdo’.

“Spinelli, it’s okay, you’re okay now,” Stone Cold says.

His arms are a warm and comfortable, and, in spite of himself, Spinelli sags against the solid chest, taking comfort that he feels he shouldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lips brushing against Stone Cold’s chest.

“Spinelli, you’ve nothing to feel sorry for,” Stone Cold tells him.

“I just,” Spinelli says, “I just want things to go back the way they were. I want to see again. I want to make love to you. I want…”

Stone Cold stops his frantic speech with a finger over his lips.

“There’s no need to rush that, I’m just happy to have you back,” Stone Cold promises him.

“I want my eyes back,” Spinelli blurts out. “I want my eyes back. I want to,” he clenches his hands into fists, “I want to kill the Colonel, tear his eyes out with my bare hands, fuck him with,” he chokes on his words, “fuck him with a busted bottle the way he did, the way he…”

Words fail him, tears that are not his own wet his cheek, and he’s being rocked by Stone Cold, his head pressed flesh against Stone Cold’s bare chest. He can hear the man’s sturdy, rhythmic heartbeat, and it calms him a little.

“I’m so sorry, Spinelli,” Stone Cold says, “I wish I could give you your eyes back and take away the pain. I wish I could give you the Colonel to tear apart. I’d even stand by and watch if you wouldn’t let me help you.”

“I know,” Spinelli whispers, and relaxes against Stone Cold. His stiff muscles feel sore, and a soft, grateful moan escapes past his lips when Stone Cold starts to rub his back.

“Tell me what happened,” Jason pleads. His hands still as he waits, but then resume their circular movement when Spinelli sighs and stiffens a little.

“I,” Spinelli opens his mouth, and then closes it.

He hasn’t talked with anyone about this. Hasn’t even spoken to Marcus about everything, though the man knows almost all of it. Hasn’t spoken to his therapist about everything either.

“I,” he tries again. “I…it was a Tuesday…” and in stilted words, with many starts and stops, he tells Stone Cold what happened, or as much of it as he can remember.

When he’s finished, Stone Cold’s heart is beating so rapidly that Spinelli fears it will burst right out of the man’s chest. The loud thumpa, thump, thump, thump, grounds him. His fingers curl in and out of loose fists as he waits for Stone Cold to say something. His own heart feels a little lighter, and he wonders why he’s held all of that inside of himself for so long. His doctor, Marcus, Stone Cold, Carly and Shawn were all right. He feels better, a little less broken.

Instead of speaking, Stone Cold pulls him closer, and kisses him. “Thank you,” he whispers, “I’m…I…thank you.”

Spinelli doesn’t understand what it is that Stone Cold is thanking him for, but the tight, hot ball of pain that has been sitting in his stomach like a lead weight since he’s been rescued, is gone. He can breathe again, and it feels good.

“Thank you for trusting me,” Stone Cold says, his lips hovering just over Spinelli’s. “I love you,” he says as he presses his lips to Spinelli’s.

“I love you too,” Spinelli says, and he suddenly wants to show Stone Cold how much he loves him.

He doesn’t want to rely on words anymore. He reaches up. Letting his fingers guide him, he explores his lover’s face, and flicks his tongue between the man’s lips. Teeth tongue, and cheek – his taste buds explode with the spice that marks his mentor turn paramour. Stone Cold is an aromatic amalgamation of sweat and tangy vermouth.

“Fuck me,” he says. “Fuck me like an animal.”

Spinelli has no idea where the words come from, they are niggling at the back of his mind. Spanish variations of them tumble forth, hitting him like a whirlwind, and he’s dizzy, reeling from the images they bring with them. Dirty, painful memories surface and before he knows what’s happening, he’s hyperventilating.

Stone Cold stills, pulls back and Spinelli can feel the man’s eyes on him: reproving, roaming, finding him wanting.

“Not like that Spinelli,” he says, “never like that. But, if you’ll let me,” he pauses.

Spinelli tenses and tilts his face upward, looking at Stone Cold in a way eyes never could. Instead of the darkness he’s become accustomed to, he can see light when Stone Cold touches his elbow. He’s shivering and, if he could, he’d be crying real, honest to god tears.

“If you’ll let me, Spinelli,” Stone Cold repeats, “I’ll make love to you, the way I’ve dreamt of long before you left, before you lost your eyes. After you lost your eyes. Every night since you’ve come back to me and more nights than I can remember when I thought you were lost to me forever. Did you know that I used to dream about you?”

Spinelli shakes his head. He’s mute, in addition to being blind. Stone Cold’s never said this much all at once to him.

“When you were gone,” Stone Cold says, “I used to dream about you. Sometimes.” Spinelli can feel Stone Cold shudder as he remembers. “Sometimes they were nightmares.”

He can tell Stone Cold’s no longer looking at him, but rather at some point on the wall beyond his shoulder. It’s a little disconcerting, that he can sense where the man is looking, even though he himself can no longer see. Disconcerting and terrifying, that, in their short time together, since he’s lost his sight, he knows the other man so well. That, if he knows Stone Cold this well (can read his body language without even seeing it), then maybe Stone Cold knows him just as well – if not better.

“I…I’d wake up screaming,” Stone Cold admits.

Spinelli doesn’t think, he reaches over, touches Stone Cold’s chest. It’s warm, yet the older man is trembling and Spinelli wraps his arms around him, burying his head into the crook of Stone Cold’s neck. It’s only as the trembling increases that Spinelli realizes his stalwart, no nonsense companion is crying.

“Sh,” he whispers, “sh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stone Cold counters. “None of it was, nor will it ever be your fault. I love you, and I’m so…angry that I couldn’t save you from those bastards. It’s tearing me up. I want to go into your nightmares and pull out the fuckers who hurt you so that I can kill them.”

“They’re already dead,” Spinelli whispers, and then he repeats it louder, “they’re dead. They’re dead.” Because, for some reason he just can’t seem to shake the stink and sweat of them off of him. Can’t seem to wash them away.

“I know,” Stone Cold says, and Spinelli can feel the other man’s jaw clench. The steely tension running through his body as his hands ball up into fists at his side, sends shivers of anticipation down Spinelli’s back. “I just wish it could’ve been me who killed them.”

“Me too,” Spinelli says, his lips brush against Stone Cold’s collarbone as he speaks. “I pictured it so many times I almost believed it to be true.” He trails a line of kisses along Stone Cold’s jaw, capturing his lover’s mouth with his own as he murmurs, “You were my knight in shining armor. Dashing them to pieces. Sundering them with your mighty sword.”

“Fuck Spinelli,” Stone Cold says as Spinelli nips at his lower lip, and snakes his hand beneath the band of his boxers.

“I believe that’s the point,” Spinelli says, smiling.

And he’s kind of trembling himself now. Fear mingles with excitement. He doesn’t want to remember the camp, doesn’t want his first time with Stone Cold to bring back memories of rape at the hands of the monsters who held him captive.

“Spinelli,” Stone Cold rumbles, “we don’t have to…”

“I…I want to try,” Spinelli says, and he looks up at Stone Cold, his fingers hovering over his partner’s already hardening cock. “I need to try,” he says, grasping the now hardened length in gentle, deft fingers.

“I just,” Stone Cold gulps, shudders as Spinelli’s thumb brushes against the head of his erect penis. “I don’t want to rush you.”

Spinelli laughs, runs his thumb along the shaft. “It’s been months. I’d say that you’ve, we’ve, been patient.”

“Fuck,” Stone Cold whispers huskily, panting into Spinelli’s ear, “fuck. Just… if you… if… just tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. If you need to. I can stop.”

Spinelli ignores the way his insides are quaking; the fear that objects to what he’s doing with his hands – what he’s about to do with his body; and the part of him that wishes he could curl up into a little ball and disappear. If he doesn’t do this now, he doubts he will ever be able to garner the strength to do it. If he doesn’t do this now, he’ll be forever trapped in the nightmares.

“I don’t want to stop,” Spinelli says. His voice isn’t nearly as confident as he’d like it to be, and he hopes that Stone Cold won’t put an end to things, that his partner, his lover, will understand. “I need to do this; I need to know that I can, that I’m not broken. That they didn’t break me.”

“You’re not broken,” Stone Cold chastises, holding Spinelli’s face between his much bigger hands; Stone Cold kisses him square on the lips. “You aren’t broken,” he repeats.

“I need to do this,” Spinelli says, bucking upward, squeezing Stone Cold’s balls lightly with his fingers.

“Shit,” Stone Cold says, his hips jerking forward. “Slow it down, or I’m going to come before we even get started,” he admonishes as he reaches for something in the drawer at the side of the bed.

It’s awkward, at first. They are both unsure of what they’re doing. Spinelli’s used to having his face pressed down into a makeshift dirt floor. Being unable to breathe. Unable to see. Unable to think of anything other than pain which threatens to render him unconscious.

In the end, Spinelli opts to lie on his back, his hips propped up on a pillow, and legs spread wide, with Stone Cold positioned between them.

Cold’s fingers feel foreign when they breach him as he applies the lube. He starts, stops, mumbles apologies when Spinelli assures him that he’s okay, and continues, his fingers quickly loosening the muscles that had long grown used to less tender abuse.

Stone Cold takes his time, making sure to ease even the smallest of discomfort that Spinelli makes known through a grunt of pain or a whimper. And, it isn’t until Stone Cold presses against his prostrate, that Spinelli begins to relax. That his mind pulls itself out of the horror of the camp, as it begins to supply him with another image altogether – Stone Cold, golden and dark, mouth downturned in a stern frown, blue eyes blazing coldly in a promise of retribution as he slaughters those who hurt his most loyal of apprentices.

He moans, a throaty sound that gets caught in the back of his throat, and thrusts upward into the touch which brought him such pleasure.

“Ready?” Stone Cold asks, the breathy question causes the hairs at the back of Spinelli’s neck to rise.

Unable to speak, Spinelli nods. There’s a part of him which is terrified, but it is quickly being pushed aside by the part of him which is eager to begin this new phase of his life with Stone Cold, and to be done with the nightmares for good.

He holds fast to the image of Stone Cold that has replaced those of his black, colorless nightmares. His lover’s face, chiseled almost to perfection, is flecked with blood, his eyes fiery with passion as he lowers his lips to take and taste of his willing servant.

“I love you,” Stone Cold says as he presses the head of his cock where his fingers used to be.

Spinelli tenses, at first, his fear making an unwanted, but thankfully momentary, reappearance as Stone Cold waits for his muscles to readjust before pushing in any further. It’s as Stone Cold is repositioning his hips, making things more comfortable for him that the fear flees completely and Spinelli blindly reaches up to draw Stone Cold’s mouth down to his for a plundering kiss.

“I love you too,” he breathes the words out almost as a prayer.

“How are you doing?” Stone Cold asks, and Spinelli can almost see the man’s eyebrows crinkling in concern, the blue eyes darkening in worry.

“I’m good, but, fuck, you’ve got to move a little faster,” Spinelli says, nipping playfully at his lover’s chin.

“Is that so?” Stone Cold’s voice is low, husky, and Spinelli can practically see the man’s lips quirk up in a mischievous, leering grin.

All thought is lost, other than that of love and need and yes, as Stone Cold makes love to him in a way which is both as gentle and passionate as it is needy and driven by pure lust.

Spinelli sees, for the first time since he lost his eyes. Stars – white, green and yellow lights that spark to life and burn brightly before fading into the darkness. Fireworks. Stone Cold’s face, not hewn of stone, not etched in stark plain lines of pain or revenge, but filled with love. Spinelli sees, and cries out in pleasure so pure, so unadulterated, that he wonders, for a split second, if it is real.

And then he feels Stone Cold stiffen and shudder as the man comes, and spills his seed into him. It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make him feel dirty. Instead, when his lover pulls out, he feels strangely empty, and mourns the loss.

“You okay?” Stone Cold asks as he collapses beside him and pulls him close, so that his head rests against his chest.

“More than,” Spinelli assures him, turning so that he can give him a kiss. “You?” he asks, absentmindedly playing with the edge of the sheets.

“Good, sleepy,” Stone Cold says, stifling a yawn.

Spinelli can hear the smile on his lover’s face, and can feel the relief rolling off the both of them. He burrows his face against Stone Cold’s chest and lets out a sigh of contentment.

Spinelli doesn’t remember falling asleep, but wakes the next morning to the warmth of the sun on his face, and a languorous kiss that tastes faintly of sweat and the tang of vermouth. He stretches, lazily working out the kinks in his back, and smiles.

“How’d you sleep?” Stone Cold asks.

Spinelli thinks about it, and realizes, with a start, that he slept through the rest of the night without having a single nightmare. His sleep wasn’t even marred by the usual fear.

“The best I’ve slept in…” he thinks, “well, since I’ve been back.”

“Hmm…” Stone Cold says thoughtfully, as he nibbles on Spinelli’s ear.

Spinelli feels himself blushing as he realizes where Stone Cold’s mind is going – the conclusion that the man, and he himself, has drawn.

Spinelli playfully punches his chest and sits up, hugs his legs to himself, and shivers a little in the cold. He tries to bring up the nightmare he’d had earlier, before he asked Stone Cold to fuck him, before the man denied his request and made love to him instead. But it remains foggy and elusive.

Stone Cold pulls him back, and he allows himself to fall into the other man’s arms, to the nest of sheets and pillow and comforter, to love and peace and warmth, and to dreams no longer shrouded by pain and filth.

He drifts once again into an easy sleep with the feel of Stone Cold’s fingers caressing the back of his neck, and the solid, unmoving bulk of the man’s body pressed tightly to his. And, he realizes, just before sleep claims him, that this is the first time since he’s returned to the States, that he feels safe. He falls asleep knowing that the nightmares, even if they come, will no longer hold any power over him.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a prompt for 11/11/11 for gh_unwrapped on livejournal.


End file.
